


Butter Me Up

by KoreArabin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bondage, Butter, Chains - mentioned, Dubious Consent, Home Invasion, Leashes - mentioned, M/M, Nudity, Rape Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: “Mmmm.  You are utterly beautiful, aren’t you?  You truss yourself up in those tight suits of yours and hide all of this away.   Why, I wonder?  If you were mine, I’d keep you on a leash, naked and in chains.  I’d probably even chain your cock and balls too, keep them locked up to show everyone that you belonged to me.  How would you like a leash around your cock, with my name tag on it?  Would that excite you, Mr Moriarty?”





	Butter Me Up

Jim’s pacing. Looking from the window that serves as one wall of their penthouse flat, London looks amazing in the summer’s hazy late evening light.

If Jim had a favourite time of day, which he doesn’t, because that’s the sort of thing ordinary people have, and he’s way above that, and anyway stuff like ‘favourite this’ or ‘favourite that’ is, as Seb would scoffingly say, “Well ghey”.

But, if he did, this would be it. This time of day when it seems that the world stills, becomes silent, as if suspended in anticipation of the coming of the night. Night. Darkness. Where the daylight doesn’t penetrate, where so much fun happens. Murky, nefarious, sly, bloody. That’s Jim’s world and his breath hitches at the memories of all the mayhem he's committed in those dark, dead hours of night. So much excitement. So much _brilliance_ , cutting right through all the mediocrity, the banality, the boring run of nondescript little people. So much brilliance, scintillating, just like him. Or gleaming darkly, like the warm, gushing blood he's always adored the scent of.

However, talking of blood, talking of (snigger) _ghey_ , where is Seb? He should have been home ages ago; a simple, clean, swift mark today. Super Seb (snigger again) could have done it sleepwalking. So where is he?

Jim isn’t what one would call a worrier. A neurotic, possibly. An obsessive – OK, OK, shake hands with Mr Psychotic, and pour him a cup of tea. So, he’s not worried about Seb. He knows that his trusty sniper can look after himself. No, it’s the not knowing what’s going on that pisses Jim off. He’s the man with the plan, the man with the control, the man with the fucking console, the man who knows it all. That’s why he’s so fucking good and when all the little people aren’t asking him to be their Daddy, they’re begging him to be Mr Sex. Or both. 

Jim’s cock twitches when he thinks of stern, _dirty_ Daddy fucking naughty little Sebby-kins, his wayward, but tries oh-so-hard-to-be-good, little cock-warmer. 

So, it pisses him off royally when someone, and one of his own bloody minions at that, isn’t following the scrpit.

He stabs at his phone.

**Where the fuck are you? JM**

Nothing. Nada. Silence.

Jim’s about to get seriously antsy and consider taking a blowtorch and a pair of pliers to Seb’s room when there’s a loud thump at the front door. Strange. Seb has a key and anyway how the fuck could anyone else get into the building and up to the flat? Annoyance building exponentially, Jim stalks to the door and flings it open.

Two things immediately strike him: one – it’s not Seb; and two – standing there is a tall man clad all in black, wearing what appears to be a neoprene ski mask, and holding the most alarming looking shotgun Jim’s ever seen.

In the split second it takes Jim to register this information, the man has stepped over the threshold and clonked Jim one right on the chin. The world turns grey and he crumples.

-o-

Jim comes to feeling unexpectedly OK. No throbbing head, no apparent feelings of incipient nausea, just a, “How fucking soft are you getting, Moriarty?” raging through him. Good. Ish.

Not so good is the fact that he is: one (so he loves lists – he’s a bloody planning prodigy par excellence, yes?) – he is, as far as he can make out – naked; and two – tied face down to his own bed. His wrists are cuffed together and fastened to the headboard, whilst he legs are tied wide apart, presumably to each of the bed posts at the foot of the bed. Even more worrying is the fact that he lying draped over one of his custom-made Liberty bolsters, so that his arse is tilted up in the air, his vulnerable arse, perineum and balls all laid out invitingly on display. Not good, not good at all. 

A rustle somewhere behind him tells him that the man in black (the man in the Milk Tray ad, he thinks, almost having to stifle a hysterical giggle) is watching him.

“Ah. Sleeping Beauty awakes!”

The man moves closer. “And what a beautiful sight he is.” Jim feels a leather?rubber? covered hand slide up over his left calf, drifting to the inside of his knee and up between his thighs. It pauses at the crease between his thigh and buttock, idly caressing, before moving down to grasp his testicles, rolling them lightly between its fingers. Jim is completely still, fearing some sudden, awful, unexpected pain, but the touch continues to be gentle, and a couple of fingers move up to lightly massage his perineum.

“Mmmm. You are utterly beautiful, aren’t you? You truss yourself up in those tight suits of yours and hide all of this away. Why, I wonder? If you were mine, I’d keep you on a leash, naked and in chains. I’d probably even chain your cock and balls too, keep them locked up to show everyone that you belonged to me. How would you like a leash around your cock, with my name tag on it? Would that excite you, Mr Moriarty?”

“As I have no idea who the fuck you are, and I have no intention of letting anyone control anything of me, and certainly not my fucking genitalia, I think I’ll have to tell you and your whole fucking weird fantasy to do me the favour of fucking right off.” It doesn’t come out quite as fearsomely as Jim would have liked, but being tied down with one’s arse in the air makes it a little difficult to threaten as effectively as one might like.

“Pffft. Methinks the lady doth protest too much. And what if I gave you a few tasteful piercings? For decoration, certainly, not that you need it, but I'd enjoy the control: through your nipples, through your cock, through your tongue, through your _septum_ , hmmm? A dirty, sluttish little cocktease like you would be creaming himself, the minute I attached a chain to them and dragged you around after me. You don’t fool me for a minute, I’m afraid.”

“But you’re very spirited. I like that. It’ll make listening to you beg all the sweeter. And, you will beg. Whether that’ll be for more pleasure, or for no more pain, I haven’t quite made up my mind yet. My dear.”

Jim expects pain. Retribution. Punishment. But all he gets is a genuinely amused chuckle.

The hand is back now, fingers stroking between his buttocks, over his arsehole, gently at first, and then suddenly both hands are there, pulling his buttocks as wide apart as possible. “Oh, you are tight, aren’t you? Surely the fearsome James Moriarty isn’t an innocent blushing virgin?”

Jim decides not to dignify that with even a growl.

Then, there’s something pushing at his arsehole. Something cold and hard, but at the same time somewhat yielding, at the edges at least. Whatever it is, it breaches his tight sphincter and all he can feel is the strange cold soft hardness forcing into him. Something is trickling down between his legs, over his perineum and balls, and then there’s more coldness, more pressure, more stretching, the feeling of being forced open, of being filled, but with something that he can’t identify. Not as hard as a dildo, and certainly too cold to be a cock. And, after his obsessive monitoring of Sherlock’s flat and his experiments with God knows what, Jim doesn’t want to even consider what a masked rapist might have that’s cold and not too hard and being forced into him. 

The pressure continues, and continues. Whatever it is, he is beginning to feel as if his arse and insides are being totally stuffed full and despite himself begins to wriggle, trying to get away from the constant violation of his body.

“Darling, have you not realised what I intend to do to you?” The mocking voice is there again, just beside his right ear, as his attacker leans over him, the pressure in his anus and rectum ceasing momentarily. “I’m buttering you up, you delightful little morsel. I am going to fill you up with the most delicious, rich, creamy butter and, when you are moaning with pain because I have filled your dirty little arse right up to the limit, and you can’t take any more, I am going to plug you up with my thick, hard cock and fuck into all that lovely, sloppy, butter through your tight arsehole.” 

Without further pause, the pushing at his arsehole continues. The remorseless press of more and more butter into his hole has Jim struggling and twisting in his restraints, moanly weakly in utter helplessness as he feels his insides packed fuller and fuller. The only respite is the feeling of the wet, greasy puddle spreading under him as his body heat melts some of what has been stuffed into him, trickling down over his balls and congealing around his cock. His cock. His fucking half erect cock.

Jim knows it’s the constant pressure inside him against his prostate that’s making him harden but, even so, he writhes in frustration at the humiliation of appearing to get off on this.

Fuck knows how many packs of the stuff they had in the fridge; neither he nor Seb use a lot of it, so presumably Milk Tray man has brought a stash in a cold bag with him? The pain, the insistent pressure within him, is becoming too much to bear. "Please. Please. Stop. Please."

And, miraculously, it does. But then, he's aware of another type of violation, a new penetration. It feels - hot? Forcing the mass inside him even deeper into every part of his rectum, his insides, at the same time as what feels like melting some of it around the new, thick, hot intrusion. The man's cock - of course. No doubt his arsehole has been so stretched by what's gone before he hardly felt the cock entering him; all he's registering is it forcing its way through the thick, greasy mass filling him.

The man groans in pleasure. "Jesus, you are so tight and so hot and so fucking full."

He grasps Jim's hips bruisingly and pulls them up even more, ramming into the squelching, sloshing, viscous mass inside him.

If there is one teensy little thing that Jim can feel grateful for during this arse-pounding, it is the fact that the sensations his attacker must be getting from it will bring him off sooner rather than later. And so it goes. With one final, violent, stuttering thrust, the man cries out as he comes, his orgasm pulsing through Jim's still stuffed rectum. The man collapses over Jim's back, panting and twitching as the final aftershocks of orgasm course through him.

Jim lies still, waiting for the man to move off of him. He's so heavy, draped like a dead weight over him, crushing him down against the bed. With a groan, the man eventually stirs, leaning down to nuzzle gently at Jim's ear. "Did you enjoy that, darling? You were amazing."

He slips down the bed, untying Jim's ankles and then unbuckling the cuffs on his wrists. Turning Jim over gently, he pulls off the ski mask and leans in for a deep, wet, passionate kiss. 

Jim whispers, "Seb, you are the most filthy, dirty, perverted bloody bastard I have ever met, apart from me, of course, which is probably why I love you so much."

"Enjoyed it then, being trussed up and stuffed like a turkey? Next time I may stopper you up with a plug first, and enjoy you wriggling and begging before I fuck you. And slap you around a bit more, make you squeal."

Jim smiles. "Oh, darling, you do say the sweetest things. Now come here and choke on my cock." 

And Seb does.


End file.
